It’s a mystery.

The delights of its beer scene, call centre shennanigans, and eye-opening public transport system are not sufficient to keep me in Toronto much longer. (Who would have thunk?)

I’m still without a crystallised plan for Canada, somehow it seems compressed in a way America does not, and I do not want to just flit from major city to major city.

Similarly the great attractions appear to be out of reach by car – glaciers, snow, ice – all seem too far north for an antipodean in a van.

For the first time on this journey I’m a little lost.

But then the universe shows me a sign.

Those of you that have the misfortune of philosphising with me after a beverage or two, may remember that, amongst other bon mots, one of my favourite quotes is from Geoffrey Rush in Shakespeare in Love.

As I remember it, the line is “Things always work out. I don’t know how, they just do.”

That line comes close to encapsulating many of my beliefs.

Wrap it up in a doona of  “if you’re lucky you win”, snuggle up next to a grateful “good luck, bad luck, who knows?” parable and have grandma “the root of all suffering is desire” bring you some cookies and tea, and that’s my life’s philosophy.

So it’s with some regard that I treat the appearance of an advertisement for a stage production of “Shakespeare in Love” being held in Stratford, about an hour west of Toronto.

The Stratford festival, unsurprisingly for those educated in the bard’s history, is an ongoing orgy celebrating his work, and one of Ontario’s (the province) major tourist attractions.

The town, named after Will’s purported birthplace, holds an ongoing Stratford festival, where many versions of the geat man’s work are presented, together with other theatrical classics like A Chorus Line.

Imagine the West End, Broadway  and the various Australian theatres all melded into one small town, rebadged in honour of the bard, and almost completely dependent on sufficient numbers coming to partake in a night of entertainment performed by actual humans in person before them.

It even comes with an Avon River!

To be fair, Google had tried to steer me in the direction of Stratford back when I was deciding where to head after Niagara, but I had declined the invitation.

Not for a second time.

As you might imagine for a theatre town named after a 17th century English village, it is quaint, with beautiful buildings, a somewhat odd/eccentric population and a performers culture.

That’s not to say there are no modern amenities, but like most places with an alternative culture, it feels, will, somewhat alternative. In a positive, dance through the garden, enjoy your gluten free, vegan meal kind of way.

Individuality is embraced here, though it comes with a complement of prosperity, grey haired wealth, and a slightly upturned nose which falls well short of pretension, but clearly isn’t of the beer and skittles family.

After all who can pay for such ancient extravagance other than “patrons of the arts” which according to the program, includes benefactors in the 550k, 1 and 10M brackets.

Does travelling in a van count as an artistic endeavour?

But I digress.

I buy my ticket online and head southeast to my date at the theatre. Perhaps the best way to describe Stratford stature is that there is a daily dedicated bus from Toronto and back designed to take the effort of of making the he long drive.

That it probably increases alcohol sales by 15% is no coincidence I imagine.

I park. Find a backyard cafe to indulge my gluten free but still carnivorous charcuterie plate,and walk to the theatre which resides in the middle of town.

I’m allowed to take wine into the theatre (albeit in a somewhat proprietary sippy cup) and I settle in comfortably as the house lights go down.

It’s fucking brilliant.

Mesmerising. Comical. Dramatic. Entrancing. Beguiling. Laugh out loud funny. Touchingly poignant. Perfectly cast (including the GRush lookalike in the same role)

I laugh. I cry (ok so that’s nothing new for me), and at the end am more than happy to jump to my feet and partake in rapturous applause, sustained for call back after call back.

Have I seen a more enjoyable theatrical performance?

I’m not sure. Les Mis is more powerful. Any Dickensian play more turgid. Cats and the Lion King more childlike. Hamlet and Macbeth more indecipherable. I’ve not seen Phantom but suspect it falls in with Les Mis.

It’s been cultural and enjoyment heaven. (Is that a tautology? Could enjoymen be anything but a heaven????)

Long may those with far too much money continue to support the arts, for at its best it’s a showcase for humanity. Admittedly at its worst it is self aggrandising, obscure and pretentious, but I’ll suffer a few Chris Lilleys for the sake of a John Cleese, a George Carlin or a Tim Minchin.

The upside is that I’m corrected on what the actual line is, in both the movie and the play –

Philip Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.
Hugh Fennyman: So what do we do?
Philip Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
Hugh Fennyman: How?
Philip Henslowe: I don’t know. It’s a mystery.

And Canada, like my indecipherable world wide search is just that.

A mystery.

But a bloody enjoyable one!